


Slight of Hand

by justalittlegreen



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fuckbuddies, Good Friends, Hurt/Comfort, also smut, hawk is a mess, hawk is hard on himself, houlihawk, i hate the name hawkgret, it's fucking HOULIHAWK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26003329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justalittlegreen/pseuds/justalittlegreen
Summary: They were all tricks and sparks together. Until the day they needed something softer.
Relationships: Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	Slight of Hand

The first few times she lets Pierce think he's finally seducing her (rather than her getting frustrated and lonely enough to decide to let him into her bed) it's hot and furious and full of showing off. She kisses him to keep his mouth occupied; he disarms her bra with two and a half fingers in seconds. He nips and licks in all the most sensitive spots - below her ear, where her neck meets her shoulder, makes her shudder with a well-placed flick of the tongue just off her throat. She flips him onto his back and rides him with her back to him, not letting him see her face when she comes apart. Also, her ass looks _really_ good when she does that. 

It's not antagonistic, even though they annoy each other - it's a mutual appreciation of something they both do well, a begrudging admission that they have one (well, two, if you count the OR) arena of true compatibility. 

And while he's full of flirtation and irritating come-ons, they're not _real_ \- they're all banter and fluff, no teeth. Truthfully, Hawkeye Pierce is one of the least threatening men she's ever known. He'd never show up without an explicit invitation.

Which is why it makes no sense when he knocks on her door. At 2300 hours. Using the old knock she used to have with Frank. She's so startled she goes to the door, terrified for a second that he's come back. But instead, it's Pierce. Drunk. But without an ounce of his usual swagger. He looks like he's about to cry.

"What is it, Pierce?"  
"Margaret, can I come in?"  
His voice is clear, not slurred, quiet and low. Genuine, she thinks. He sounds - real.  
"What do you need?"  
He swallows, rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand like he's got something stuck in it. "I, uh - nevermind. It's okay." His voice cracks on the word _okay_ in a way she's never heard before and it softens everything.  
"Wait, wait, Hawkeye. What's wrong?"  
He finally looks her in the eye. Whatever's happened, it's hit him hard. Harder than she's seen before. And she knows what his bad days look like. "I just need to not be alone," he manages.  
She nods, opens the door for him. He sits on the floor and leans against her cot with his knees pulled to his chest, looking for all the world like he can't find his way home.

It takes her close to an hour to get it out of him - a nightmare, a bad one. Always about failure. He takes death too personally for an Army doctor. The patient yesterday spooked him - he's so unaccustomed to making mistakes.  
"But I caught it, Pierce," she says, joining him on the floor so she can sit shoulder to shoulder with him. "I found the missing sponge before you closed. It didn't do any harm."  
"Doesn't matter."  
"Does too. Unless you think I'm supposed to be useless except when I'm obeying commands."  
"You shouldn't have to cover me."  
Margaret's no stranger to men and their egos. She's inflated many a man who's lost his confidence. Usually, they just want to know that they're still smarter, better, bigger than someone. But Hawkeye Pierce's ego isn't her job. And he's not whining at a perceived loss. He's scared.

She slides an arm around him and pulls him closer. Usually, they only allow themselves this kind of vulnerability when they're literally under fire, or grieving. They're not bosom buddies by any stretch. But this version of Pierce is so achingly human he's practically tolerable. He lets his head fall on her shoulder, and without thinking, she presses a kiss into his hair. He loops an arm around her thigh and clings, shoulders shaking as he cries.

Margaret normally hates it when men cry. It's just an extension of whining, as far as she's concerned, a plea to be coddled and mothered. But this isn't exactly the same. For once in his life, Hawkeye's just laying his cards on the table instead of trying to impress her with tricks.

Falling into bed is an inevitability. They both knew it when she let him in. She's surprised it takes this long, honestly. Surprised that his first move is to take her hand and kiss her palm. Surprised to find herself trying to meet his eyes, and suddenly, he's the one who looks away. 

It's the opposite of everything in their usual repertoire. Slow. Tentative. It's definitely a first time of some kind, despite their familiarity. He kisses her hands for long minutes, moving to her wrist, the inside of her elbow. She reaches for his belt and he stops her. 

"Not yet," he whispers. "Is that okay?"  
"Yeah," she says uncertainly. "I mean, of course, but -"  
"Don't worry," he says quickly. "I still want you, terribly - you're still the biggest knockout this side of the Pacific. I just - "  
He's worried, she knows. Worried that if she takes it farther, she'll expect the tricks and flash. And it's clear he doesn't have that in him. She wraps her arms around him (they haven't even taken their undershirts off!) and pulls him close. His pulse is racing.   
"Hawk," she begins, and the nickname is so strange on her lips that she corrects herself. "Hawkeye, you know I don't expect anything from you, right?" It's not quite the right words, but she hopes he gets it.

He nods against her shoulder in a way that makes her think he definitely doesn't believe her. How the hell did she get herself into this? Convincing a man that he didn't have to be all...powerful. It's definitely not in her regular repertoire.

"It's all right if you don't want - if you're not in the mood, or something. We could just...lie down. Would that be okay?"  
He takes a second, and then, "yeah. Yeah that'd be okay."

They lean against each others' backs while they untie their boots, and she heaves herself up to the cot, holding a hand out to him, which he takes. It's strange to be in bed together without tearing each others' clothes off. She slips a hand under his shirt and strokes whatever skin she can reach. He runs the tips of his fingers over the outline of her. 

When they do finally fall into kissing, it's slow and deep and _intense._ Hawkeye usually kisses her like he's trying to devour her whole; this time, it's more of a dance between them. Their bodies join in a gentle give and take, brushing against each other, a small twitch of the hips here, a brush of their stocking feet there. She wants him more than she probably ever has. Wants this, anyway. Whatever words there are for something this open, this raw, this - is innocent a word that either of them really deserve?

He usually goes for her with his hands first, warms her up and revs her engine, so to speak. But this time, his hand trails down her shirt and pauses at her belt like a question. She presses a hand over his - _yes_ \- and he unbuckles her with that deft one-handed trick that's so useful for when two bodies are pressed in a tight space. There's an attempt to gracefully disentangle themselves from their pants, which quickly falls to chuckling, and finally, each of them takes off their own. 

When she comes back to him, he starts to lie on his back, the way she usually wants it, but this time, she pulls him gently toward her until he gets the hint. He rolls on top of her and she lifts her hips, wrapping her legs around his back as he enters her smoothly. She's been aching for it so long she almost cries out as she feels him stretching her open, biting her lip out of habit.

Even at its most inevitably frenzied, they never reach their typical breakneck pace. There's no endless stream of filthy language to try and mitigate, just breath after breath after shuddering gasp until he loses himself completely, burying his head in the pillow beside her, panting and - is he crying again?

Margaret's not one to go without, during sex - she'll shamelessly hold a man hostage until she finds her release - but she finds herself oddly accepting as Hawkeye rolls off her and does his best to curl up in the narrow space. As his breathing slows, she hears him whisper, "I'm sorry, Margaret. I'm sorry."

"Shhh," she says, stroking his hair. "It was good for me, too." And damn if she isn't lying.

It's near dawn before she gently shoos him out of her tent. By the time he's dressed, he looks almost like himself again. He drops a light kiss on her forehead and gives her a squeeze before he slips out, closing the door almost silently. 

That day in surgery, he's back to himself. He doesn't say anything about it, and neither does she. But as they work, his usual patter filling the OR, she notices that all his jokes land elsewhere.


End file.
